the man with the white socks

It was so strange. There I was, on Christmas day, having mad sex with my beautiful Spanish boy (toy). We had just sat through two hours of boredom (Ben Affleck, I want my money back) where we had spend most of the time being one of these annoying couples you'd hate to have sitting in front of you. Making out in the dark, a hand here and there, nibble on the lips. We had barely made it back to my bedroom and clothes were flying left and right. We were sweating; I was against the frame of my door, cold hands under my shirt, then lift up and pushed to the bed. I opened my eyes, and there was my Latin Boy (toy), all handsome, naked, gorgeous muscular chest, legs…mmm.. And his white socks. And normally, I would have just laughed and playfully mocked him… Johnny walked in one night at SFP after I had sent him a headshot and we talked on the phone. He wanted to meet and get a vibe from me.He said I would be perfect for the lead in the movie he wrote, was producing, casting as a casting director named Brett and would star in…. Red flag number one. But you see, when you have gone through one crappy audition after the other, where you are always told you'd make it big if only…If only I had bigger boobs, if only I didn't have an accent, if only I was blonder, taller, skinnier…If only… Johnny thought I was perfect as I was. Perfect… Me!I got excited. It was hard not to. I was excited because it was a role in a feature movie, and a part that had words, tons of words, whole pages filled with words that my tongue was ready to let roll! So when Johnny stopped by and squatted the bar, urging me to come rehearse the scenes for the audition-the coffee shop scene, the club scene, the date rape scene- I got hyped up and did not see the red flag number two: yes, there is a rape scene, but no worries: "it's going to be tasteful and you're so hot, you really shouldn't worry about being naked on screen."I went to his apartment, alone. And when I got there, I thought: How lucky am I? A great part awaited me, and I was the favorite. He was even helping me practice.We first started with a warm up. Johnny suggested Meisner. The repetition exercise. We stood in front of each other, breath in, breath out… and we took turn repeating.Johnny spoke first:- You seem nervous.- I seem nervous, I repeated- You seem nervous!!!- I seem nervous…- Ok forget about it Sophie. If you’re not going to be honest, if you’re not pro enough to be truthful this is pointless.- I don’t understand what you mean Johnny.- You have to admit that you’re feeling nervous OK?So I said OK, ignored the knot in my stomach warning me: red flag number three… I was so nervous by then, my voice started to shake. Johnny got pissed and decided it was pointless for the day. He was disappointed I wasn't “open enough”. But he liked me and was willing to "mold" me some more, but tomorrow.I was working that night when Johnny showed up to give me some notes- and he wanted to make sure I knew how to rehearse the rape scene. In our underwear of course… I was a little thrown back but I didn't find anything too odd with this! No, no I am not a nympho, but I have worked on scenes in class or for plays that required me to be in my underwear, and they all had to be rehearsed in our underwear. Because, just like some of my teachers pointed out:” How do you expect to be comfortable in your underwear on a stage if you’ve never tried it in the privacy and safety of a rehearsal!” The next evening, here I was, ignoring all the red flags my body was waving at me, tensing up my shoulders, my stomach hurting so much the coffee seemed to dig a hole in it.And Johnny, like the pro that he is, started by showing me footage he got with his new camera; his modeling book, the new Calvin Klein boxers he bought…an hour later, we finally ran our lines. I felt fine and ready for the screen test, I had worked that morning with an acting coach, I had my notes. So I was ready to burst into tears when Johnny scheduled another rehearsal. I did not want to come back again, and be alone with him. And red flag number four: Johnny let me know he thought he might have made a mistake with me. I was over-confident. Maybe I didn't truly want to become an actor since I refused to do the grunt work and make sacrifices. And after all, it's not like I am that great yet, I should be grateful he is giving me so many chances: the way I said the lines was wrong, the way I moved was wrong. RED FLAG, RED FLAG!!!!So I came back for my last rehearsal. When I walked in, the room was dark, only lit by a small lamp. Red flag number six. Johnny was fussing over the camera. He wanted to make sure we couldn't see that my body was a bit soft. (I'd have to tone it, Johnny said) and he wanted it all to be about me, so no need to film his face (RED FLAG NUMBER SEVEN) And I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry because it did not feel right but I was an actress,yes, I was an actress, I knew what to do with my hands…(The Seagull) and so I walked to the bed, and I went through my notes, getting ready for my scene. And Johnny said, OK, take your shirt off and get to your underwear. And I took them off. And then Johnny said: let's start the scene….Johnny said his first line:- Take your clothes off!That wasn't really in the scene. What clothes? I was already in my underwear. So I looked up at Johnny. Except I didn't see Johnny. All I saw was his penis: He was naked. I mean, totally naked. Well no, not totally: he kept his white sport socks on!- Take your clothes off! He started yelling.I couldn't say a word. I just stared. My head going from left to right, right to left. No. Johnny stared at me with disgust. “Let’s just go on. Unlike you, I’m not afraid to be true to the character whenever I am working on it. I don’t just perform for the camera. This is called being in the moment OK?”I went on with the scene, mainly because I just didn’t know what else to do. I was only conscious of Johnny’s naked body against my legs, how his 2 days beard was scratching the soft spot above my chest, how his arms felt so heavy on my stomach, how I felt nauseous whenever his lips would brush against my face. And I was moving, wiggling, trying not to have his dick touch any parts of my body. And how disgusted I felt, these white socks glowing in the dark room. How amazed I was my brain could remember the lines I blurted out... My eyes were starting to get wet when Johnny finally whispered: “scene” in my ear, calling the end.I got home and I clichéd my way to a shower. I understood now. I did feel dirty. I wanted to scrub off the skin Johnny had touched. And I felt ashamed. Because I didn’t say a single thing. I just didn’t know what had happened. Did I get sexually harassed? It didn’t feel like it. I mean, I never thought I was going to get raped. I never felt my life was in danger. Maybe it was all me? Was it me? I knew he had stepped over the line but what about me? Had I encouraged him? Why had I not seen any red flags? They were there, I know they were there! Was I even more in the wrong not to have screamed and run out of there? And I just didn’t know why. Johnny said he was being true to the character so did that mean…I wasn’t?I still went for my screen test. Mainly because I did not want Johnny to know how much I had been affected. I was a professional. I could handle this. Yeah, right… I kicked ass at that audition. I really did. But it did not matter. Because every time Johnny said a line, I saw his naked body and those white socks. And I thought I might cry. Every time Johnny touched me, I saw his naked body and those white socks… And I thought I might cry. Every time Johnny breathed, I saw his naked body and those fucking white socks… And I knew I would cry. For many nights.For the whole year, I found reasons not to go to auditions. I did not want to act anymore. I didn't feel like it. It took me a year of my life to realize that I was not the one lacking talent. I was not the one with a problem… For a whole year I was ashamed, I could not tell anyone what had happened… Because I had stayed. Because I had allowed it… I had just turned 23 Johnny. I was young and innocent. I thought love for art was above pettiness, above sexual abuse, above using someone for a cheap thrill...Because we were fellow artists and respected the Theater. So I did not say anything to anyone. A whole year. That's a long time for a guilt trip, Johnny. Did you have one? I am an actress, I was one back then, and I will always be one. Part or no part… I will no longer be a naïve girl, Johnny. I can't report you to SAG. Because it is too late. But I can write about it. I can't punch you in the stomach, Johnny, because I no longer know where you live...I can't have sex with my boy and his white socks, Johnny, but I can ask him to take them off. I can't forget you Johnny, but you, you better remember me.

Tattooed

It was Saturday night almost a year ago. My friend Dana needed someone for moral support. I walked in with her and started looking at designs: A dragon wrapped around a black sword with two drops of blood; the Chinese symbol for hope; a rose like the one my sister has on her right hip…It was the garbled announcement that woke me up. For a split second, I couldn’t figure out where I was. I pushed back the curtains. A little cloud of dust floated in the air. Looking out, I caught a glimpse of the souk. The vegetable one: green and yellow and red. I knew it by heart: the tomatoes were shaped like small pears, the cucumbers were wrinkly and dry. My grandmother cut them in small squares and mixed them with green apples, olive oil and lemon juice. It was the most popular salad among tourists here. A few seconds after, I spotted the public garden. Old men sitting on the benches, talking, one leg crossed over the other; couples walking. Then I saw it: Beb-el-Diwan: Entrance to my grandmother’s “castle”. She lived in the Medina, the old city of Sfax, 4 hours away from Tunis, 6 for us: we took the train; it had stopped to let a cattle eat some grass in the middle of the tracks. My sister Myriam and I had met up in Paris for a two-hour flight and a crazy cab ride through Tunis to make it to the train station.Beb-el-Diwan opens to a city surrounded by a fort. Inside, a labyrinth of narrow streets. No hot water. You have to boil it and splash yourself with it. It’s the Tunisian shower. Not for tourists!Dana sat in one of those Chinese massage chairs, with a hole in the middle for you to rest your head; Her mother walked in and held her hand…I started scribbling on a piece of paper…. My sister and I grabbed our bags and cross the road carefully. “Roudbellic bil Karba” said my grandmother, extending one arm in front of my chest whenever we ventured in the city. Too many had died on that road: Kadour, my father’s childhood friend, his 23-year-old son Karim, crashed and burned to death. Dad went to claim the bodies- spare the grieving wife-. They had died a day after Valentine’s Day, the day the world demonstrated for peace. - Almost half a million people in New York City they say.My suitcase was heavy with candies and chocolates I had bought for my cousins, those I knew and the new ones I had never met. It had been 3 years since my last visit. I could already see my cousin Souleima running on the sidewalk, waving her hands. We were easy to spot, the two Abiad girls – especially me. My sister had been blessed with darker skin and curly black hair. Everyone knew who we were: Gharbis –He who comes from the west- My Grandfather had migrated from Morocco to Tunisia –on the ”top 25” list of INS. Please get fingerprinted- The kids in school had nicknamed us “Gharbi the garbage”. But I didn’t look like an Arab girl. No one knew unless I told them. Sometimes I didn’t. I was ashamed. And then, I’d be ashamed for being ashamed.“Sofe?” Dana got up and made me take a look at the lotus flower on her lower back… “It looks good”….“Show me”, said Tom, looking at the paper in my hand My parents had named me Sophie. No A at the end. But every one called me Sofe. Except my dad. He still said “Popy”. When he was a baby, my brother couldn’t pronounce the “s” or the “ph” so he called me popy. My brother was the only one with an Arabic name. Ismael. But it’s also biblical said my mother. On the steps of our church, the whispers behind her back, short blond hair, fair skin and bright blue eyes. “ She married that Arab man. I’d invite them for dinner but I am afraid he will eat with his hands and burp at the table”. My sister and I never mentioned this to anyone.Tom carefully poured some black ink in a tiny plastic tube, changed the needle and dabbed alcohol on my skin.Souleima managed to carry the suitcase up the stairs, all the way to the top. I followed. There was the oddly familiar smell of urine, the broken 10th step, and the sun glare when you get to the top… My feet were already gray from the sand. I should have known better than to wear flip-flops. Before I leave, I’ll give them to Souleima. She’ll walk around her school: “They’re from my cousin who lives in America”. The other girls will be envious. You can’t find those there. Old Navy, $2.50. To my left, Jamel the butcher was leaning against the door, sweat on his forehead. He gave me a kiss that scratched. His stomach had gotten bigger. He comes by our house for L’aid-El-Kebir, after Ramadan and l’Aid-El-Serir (eat modestly at the end of the fast) to kill the lamb. Always put enough meat aside. Grandma will walk around the village later in the day and give it to the poor. The first time, I threw up. I had gotten attached to the lamb we had in the house for a week. Dad said that you get used to it.The day after we usually went on my aunt’s grave. Malika used to pinch my cheek. With her thumb and middle finger. Leaving white prints in the middle of a red patch. I hated her so much for it. She died at 25 of a brain tumor. I hated God for it. I don’t think I ever told her I loved her.Grandma washed the grave with water. It made an orange paste because of the sand. She’d rub it with her hands until it was white again. We took a bus back home and she stayed silent the whole way. I didn’t know how to tell her. So I sat next to her while she knitted and read my book. Un sac de billes. The story of Joseph and his brother during world war two. Joseph exchanged the yellow star for a bag of marbles. True story. He never saw his father again. Further down, 2 roads crossed. To the left, the one that used to take me to grandpa’s shop. He sold cigarettes, stamps, cookies and gum. I ran and hid besides him after I spit at Grandma’s feet, my thigh still burning from the spanking. She punished me for something my brother, the only son of the only son, had done. Grandpa taught me Arab, Italian and Spanish numbers. Sometimes, he let me play cashier with the register. I took the money. Counted to three: ‘wahad, essnain, thalatha”. Gave the pack of cigarettes.I laid down on my side, one leg extended. Tom grabbed my foot and held it tight. “ Will it hurt?” “No, not really”… The three of us made a right turn. In the middle of the street (If you are tall, you can stand on one leg on our doorstep, and stretched the other on the house across) some of my cousins – I have more than 20 of them-were playing, some were sitting on the stoop. Ahmed ran in the house: “They’re here, they’re here”.We entered through the big wooden door, the only blue one of the street. On a nail on the wall, grandma’s Sifsari. A big white satin sheet she wraps around her body and head, like a Sari, when she goes out. I loved covering myself in it. No one could see how straight my hair was, how white my skin was. My father would not get upset at how short or tight my clothes seemed to be. I became invisible on my way to the bakery. The fabric helped me carry the burning round bread.Rakia, the last daughter, waits, sitting on the stairs and starts: My butt is too small, my legs too skinny- “ I hate my body, I am too fat, my stomach too flabby”, I used to complain-curtusy of a 4 year eating disorder spend hating a body that didn’t look French- She’ll take me to her store and have me choose a skirt from there. Next to her, my aunt Najet; She bought me my first pair of heel; They were red, and pointy and I wore them to her wedding. My sister and I had matching white dresses. My Aunts Majida would only visit once. Her husband did not get along with the rest of the family. Wassila and Hedia will come after work, for dinner, with an armful of babiesfor me to be introduced to.My grandmother waits, a scarf with red and green flowers on her head: she didn’t have time to put henna in it and doesn’t want anyone to see she has some gray hair. She is already crying. She will cry even more when we leave. She wipes the tears with her handkerchief and puts it back in her bra. The usual spot. She smelled like the spices she used in the couscous we’d eat for dinner. A mixture of paprika and red pepper. I won’t eat the darker sauce. It’s the one with Harrissa. Ten times hotter than Tabasco. I called my sister a bitch when I was 5. My dad placed the red paste on my toothbrush and dared me to say it again. You should never drink water after eating something too spicy.My grandma made a separate sauce for us. We will all sit on a rug or pillow; eat on the small metallic table out of one big bowl. Each one of us a spoon. Next to it, a big yellow plastic carafe. I always tried to find a dry spot on the rim to drink out of. I didn’t like to put my lips where someone else had just put theirs. The water tasted funny.My grandmother gestures and smiles at the hand of Fatima I have around my neck. She had first pinned a similar one on my clothes when I was a baby, five fingers to stop the evil eye. It is also Jewish. It hangs today around my neck. On a chain, next to my cross. “I baptize you in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit. Amen.” My father didn’t speak to me for 3 weeks. An Arab boyfriend once told me my father had committed the ultimate sin by raising us non-Muslims. In the Parisian subway, a group of French-Arab boys, they were maybe 15 had spat on my back. “How dare you disrespect your Arab roots by bearing a cross?”. I barely felt a thing. It sounded a bit like the drill of a dentist. There was something soothing about the way Tom worked. Softly, reassuring .I then walked to my grandfather’s room and kissed his cheek. His skin was smooth. Not a single wrinkle. His hands were rough and they shook as he moved the beads of his Sheba. His prayer mat was now next to the bed. It used to be under the stairs near the front door. We’d try to avoid walking in between him and the Mecca. When he was praying. He always waved at us. Sometimes, I’d settle myself next to him. A scarf around my head. I imitated his moves. Lift your palms up to the sky. “Allah wakbar”. Then kneel on the floor and kiss the ground. I copied him: “our father in Heaven”. After, we’d sit, butt resting on the heels, and he’d split a cookie with me… Now there’s only dirty laundry under the stairs.I brought my suitcase to our bedroom, across from his. Separated by the living room. An open square in the middle of the house. It’s supposed to have roman origins. If it rains, we have to hurry and put everything away, inside the bedrooms. There’s no roof and you can see the stars in the summer. When it was really hot, we’d all sleep on mattresses and blankets, pretend we were camping. I always woke up itching. Grandma would rub alcohol on the mosquito bites so I wouldn’t scratch them to blood. If I ate too much fruit (I always did; we had a watermelon seeds spitting contest going on) she dabbed a bit of mint oil on my tummy. My brother, my sister and I will take turns sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I never liked to. I always thought a roach was waiting for me to close my eyes to climb on top of my legs. Once, I had a dream about an albinos one. I never found out: is there such a thing as an albino roach?Later that night, my sister and I will wake each other up. We went to the bathroom together at night: We’ll walk pass the cat Mahmoud (never the same cat, always the same name. My mother said “Mamouuuud”. She never could pronounce the Arabic H. Like a ”kh”. From the back of your throat.) Reaching the bathroom, I will turn the lights on and we’ll count to 10. It should give enough time to the roaches and spiders to hide. We took turn watching out for bugs. After dinner that night, we’d settle ourselves on mats and pillows and blankets. My grandmother would make mint tea with grilled pine nuts on top, we’d eat Baklava Rakia got from the expensive bakery and watch an Egyptian soap. They were always the same: a rich person falls in love with a poor one and has to fight for their love. I ‘d sit and wait for the moment the characters would break into a song, or for my grandma’s “aaaaah’s” and “ooooooh’s” when there was a kiss or if someone turned evil! Later that night, lying bed, I would hear the breathing of my brother, my grandma snore, my cousin cough, the cat run around. I’d whisper to Myriam: Are you sleeping. She’d say: Yes… And I’d know exactly what happiness felt like.. “We’re at war, Sophie”. The words of my roommates. At Charles de Gaulle airport, my passport, taken away – Where is that stamp from? Why is it written in Arabic? Where’s your last name from? - It didn’t matter that it read: Union Europeenne, Republique Francaise.“Are you sure?” had asked Dana.“All done” had said Tom, 15 minutes later, dabbing some ointment on my ankle and putting a big bandage on it. I need to take it off when I get home in a few hours. Wash it with antibacterial soap. No soaking for 2 weeks.“ The only good thing about this war is that it will wipe out the earth of all those savages, those Arabs. Rid us from that religion” Said that stranger, looking at the tattoo on my ankle.“Well, the culture is barbaric, sort of” said a Friend…A few months after my last visit to Tunisia, on my 27th birthday, I signed my name at the bottom of myself. Proudly.An artist, a writer and an actor; I work with body and words; words on body. My name. Tattooed. On the inside of my right ankle.Sofia.In big, black, bold Arabic letters.It means wisdom.